


The Serpent's Tongue

by impudent_strumpet, Masked_Man_2



Category: Macbeth - Shakespeare, Othello - Shakespeare
Genre: Cheating, Creepy, Drama & Romance, Eyes, F/M, Falling In Love, Iago is a prick, Musing, Non-Canon Relationship, Poor Emilia, Psychological Drama, Relationship(s), Secret Relationship, Villains, but we love him anyway, lots of cheating, two villains in love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-04
Updated: 2016-01-23
Packaged: 2018-04-24 18:40:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 13,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4930918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/impudent_strumpet/pseuds/impudent_strumpet, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Masked_Man_2/pseuds/Masked_Man_2
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'...But perchance it was not that at all. No, perhaps it was his eyes, his deeply shadowed, astonishingly pale eyes, that touched the place within her where no one had dared venture before, for fear of the diabolism that lay therein. Like chips of January ice, cutting and raw, they snapped up to meet her own too suddenly for comfort, narrowing briefly into invisibility before widening once more, baring to her unexpectedly ravenous soul a stunning acuity and choking, yet liberating fire. O, that fire, that bright and baleful gleam! It was one she knew well, too well: one she saw reflected within herself every moment. It was a fire of ambition: ruthless ambition, and passion, and an inherent danger that set some girlishly ignominious part of her soul, that she had thought lay dormant in her aspish breast, to blazing, alight with the searing black glow of glorious villainy....'</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Darkened Corners

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, all of you Othello and Macbeth fans! So...obviously, this is a crossover story, written collaboratively by myself and my good friend StrongButGentle over on Deviantart (http://strongbutgentle.deviantart.com). We’ll be alternating chapters; I wrote this first one, she’ll write the second, and so forth. I can’t promise super-regular updates, but we’ll certainly try our best.
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing. I am naught but a lowly devotee of the Bard. With that in mind: yes, Bill Shakes, we’re mucking about with your canon. Tremendously. We’re not ashamed.

Oddly enough, it was not the grave discourse being held ‘twixt his general and the Scots thane that held transfixed his silent attention, though a good deal more than half of his rational mind berated him for that. No...no, it was the woman, rather off of whom his eyes could not seem to stray, though to what end, he could not divine. _The woman. A wife._ The wife of a thane, no less, and though he could not have professed be precisely aware of what such a denomination entailed, there ought to have been some greater measure of sin to be had in taking up eye of the wife of one, than in doing the same for any layman’s lady fair.

 

X X X

 

But then...when had sin ever troubled _him_ so much? Verily, the whole of his existence was stepped in it, from his birth to his twenty-eighth anniversary of bastardy...and would he but speak plain, his soul’s blacker places reveled in it. Malefaction was his bread and meat, iniquity his water and wine, and what was the world, besides, but a couch of deception, of cruelty, of lies?  He had been blessed, in a way, to become so quickly disillusioned of the world’s alleged goodness, to become so intimately acquainted with its hard, bitter truth, for those content to remain in naive ignorance remained blind, blissfully, dolorously blind. They could do naught but be trampled underfoot, rendered stained and bloodied and useless and broken beyond despair, beyond repair, by those more cognizant of the true composition of the world’s key: a great bloody _joke_.

 

_Fools. All of them. Stupid, bleating, insufferable, enviable **fools**_.

 

...Had he meant to deem them enviable? _No, i’faith_ ; there was nothing worth coveting out of _those_ paltry existences. The lowest of the low, they were: a sight beneath even those such as himself, for being so damnably, sickeningly, delightfully _blind_ to the peculiar charms worked upon them by men of his ilk. Cassio was such a one. _Othello was such a one_. He had them in his palm, cupped like the fragile little puppets his machinations had forced them to become, trapped like so many flies in a web.

 

This was the time for dishonest men to thrive, and he...well, he could do naught but bind himself to that devilish creed, could he not? Carry silence for his iron shield, with a dagger of wit to adorn an acrimonious belt, and a cloak of half-truths and untruths and false truths, a heavy black cloak of miserable, blessed lies, resting upon his shoulders, with all the envious hate of the world lending unto it that unbearable weight that his soul should not have hastened to don...though that had ne’er given it pause afore.

 

X X X

 

But of course, this was no time for such idle introspection; forsooth, in the indulgence of it, he had neglected his purpose. _Stand you awhile apart_ , Othello had said, _by the door, there. We will have need of your counsel ere long, friend_.

 

Well. He had done that, was still doing it even now. _Ere long_ , the man had said, but by God, he had yet to have it made clear to him what point there was to his being here. Insofar as he could see, there was none; he had accompanied Othello hither, as was his wont, had received that meager order, and had been more or less dismissed thereafter. The Thane of Cawdor, as he self-effacingly called himself (though there resided deep within his dull blue eyes a glint that bespoke of some festering ambition, seemingly incongruous with that diffidence, and still less befitting of the seasoned warrior his rugged face and frame revealed him to be), paid him no more of mind than one would some article of furniture: plain, unassuming, and entirely deserving of his neglect. Obviously the good Lieutenant Cassio had received a hearty welcome, as had a confederate general of the Thane by the name of Banquo (who looked a bit of a mug, asking him, but then, he was not exactly at liberty to be judge of _that_ )...really, the only comparable situation he could observe was that of the woman, who had stopped paying attention as soon as the pleasantries were exchanged and the talk turned military.

 

Not that he could blame her, really. The three generals and the Florentine fop had hearkened to their purpose straight, filling the chamber with talk of battles and rations and _damned Anglo-Saxon whoresons_ and Cypriots and Turks and _finally_ , the crux of the matter: an alliance.

 

_“‘Twould prove most fortuitous for all, I think, to commission the support of the venerable Venetian navy in our campaigns, given the, ah...condition of our own.”_

_“Or lack thereof?”_

_“...’Tis e’en so. Nevertheless, General Othello, you would not go without requital. Our highland militias are strong of arm and great in number; in your effort to oust the dread Turk from the mainland, they may provide some measure of aid to you….”_

 

That this man, this Macbeth, was truly in such great need of military backing in his efforts to prevail over the English advances in his country so as to beg the general of the _Venetian_ army for it, only to levy a goodly portion of his troops to that same army’s service as recompense...well, he had his doubts on the matter; what man in his right mind would not? He could not help but perceive these anomalous actions of the thane as being rooted in a desire to achieve some ulterior end...but of course, no one had thought to seek his counsel in this regard, _lowly ensign_ that he was.

 

On the other hand...no one had forced him to wait for invitation: not now nor ever before. He could have alerted Othello to his misgivings _so easily_ ; O, he could have. But at least one of several contesting parts of him begged, metaphorical eyes alight with the anticipated prospect of imminent malicious knavery, to refrain: to remain complacent in his darkened corner, silent and watchful like always...and though the thought of such insouciance might have sickened him under any other circumstance, it veritably thrilled him now.

 

Damn it all, but he knew not from whence this newfound eagerness to push and prod at men’s farthest limits arose. Titillating it may have been, but even now, he yet retained decency enough to chafe but slightly at the cognizance of the high potential for military calamity this whole affair yielded. After all, the army had been the sole arena of his life in which he had truly exercised that blunt honesty and steadfast devotion to duty that had granted him his falsely enduring monikers. _Good_ , his men and betters had deemed him. _Honest_. Those things might ne’er had been said anyplace else but upon the tented field, and now...no longer could they be considered truth even there. Lies, all of it: a stinking heap of lies, but _out upon’t_ , he had been **_wronged_**. Othello, Cassio, and all withal...they would pay. An ‘twere his final act upon this world, _he would make them pay_. O, how sweet, how rich, would the meat of just vengeance upon his silvered tongue be...he could nearly taste it now, standing here. _Hanged be the wretches that tried to prevent him from collecting his due_.

  
  


X X X

  
  


She might have voiced her restlessness long afore if her husband would but _desist_ from subjecting her to his harshly inquisitive look on every occasion on which she made move to rise. Why he did so, she knew not; nor, in troth, cared enough to guess. ‘Twas not the setting itself that consigned her to this state of tedium, for a stranger to military matters she was none, possessing in her marriage and equity and balance of power that she, growing up, had neither envisioned herself as possessing nor observed in other women of stature. She thought it an enormous privilege to be accepted as her husband’s right arm in the governance of their lands and keep, and intended to remain so for as long a time as had been allotted her by God.

 

Still, to sanction for herself an appellation so exalted was one thing. It was another thing entirely to come here in expectation of fulfilling that duty to some extent, and Macbeth do erroneously little to involve her in the current proceedings. For God’s sake, he had merely introduced her to the Venetian commanders and been done with it all! Not once had he sought her opinion; not once had he stalled the conversation to involve her. Did it not, therefore, stand to perspicuous _reason_ that her ire, pricked all the more to heat by her extant ennui, was more than a fair bit piqued?

 

Surely, she realized suddenly, the man in the corner could wholly empathize with her plight, ensconced within like circumstance as he was. Having little else of import to do at the moment, she cast upon him a languid, appraising glance beneath half-lidded eyes, taking in the red-and-white leather jerkin, the dark, rough doublet and hose worn underneath, the black soft cap with its small brass badge glinting proudly in the brim, the wiry frame and sharp, hard, swarthy face: all marks of a military man through and through.

 

If his look singled him out as a soldier, she could say with relative certainty that his stance ascertained the fact still more; he stood in that darkened corner by the door with a deceptive calm, concealing beneath that tranquil facade a hair-trigger tension more puissant than aught she had glimpsed in her own warmongering husband afore. Macbeth might have been a general-- forsooth, a great one--, but this man...no, this man was something else. Something... _more_.

 

And she could not have said for certain whether it truly was that catlike warrior’s grace with which he stood that held her so enthralled, or some other salient feature of his. Perhaps it was the two scars, dark and deep, disfiguring the left half of his face and lending unto him an appearance ragged and gaunt, old beyond his years. Perhaps it was the stillness, the silence in which he waited. To be sure, he was a stranger to her, unintroduced and unknown, but even without acquaintance, she could sense within his upright posture something greater than a soldier’s mere desire to protect and guard his commanders. No, there was something...calculating...in this silence: something observant and hungry and lean and irrepressibly, alluringly dark. Something nearly...malicious…. And though she could not comprehend _why_ , a viler vein in her heart thudded harshly with a note of tempting glee at the realization.

 

...But perchance it was not that at all. No, perhaps it was his eyes, his deeply shadowed, astonishingly pale eyes, that touched the place within her where no one had dared venture before, for fear of the diabolism that lay therein. Like chips of January ice, cutting and raw, they snapped up to meet her own too suddenly for comfort, narrowing briefly into invisibility before widening once more, baring to her unexpectedly ravenous soul a stunning acuity and choking, yet liberating fire. O, that fire, that bright and baleful gleam! It was one she knew well, too well: one she saw reflected within herself every moment. It was a fire of ambition: ruthless ambition, and passion, and an inherent danger that set some girlishly ignominious part of her soul, that she had thought lay dormant in her aspish breast, to blazing, alight with the searing black glow of glorious villainy.

 

 


	2. He Would Have Her As His Own

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written by my friend StrongButGentle over on DeviantArt. http://strongbutgentle.deviantart.com

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note from Masked Man 2: This was written by my friend StrongButGentle (shoutout to her; she’s amazing!!!). Also, Flute-Maniac is me, over on Deviantart. :)
> 
> On with the story! Everything hereafter does not belong to me.
> 
> NOTE: This is a crossover story of Macbeth and Othello, and a treat to Shakespeare fans (namely, my dear friend Flute-Maniac, who is writing it collaboratively with me, and myself)! We'll be alternating chapters; she wrote the first chapter, I wrote this one, etc. We're busy with schoolwork and stuff, but we'll try our best to write this as often as we can.  
> I do not own Macbeth, Lady Macbeth, Iago, Othello, Desdemona, any other characters mentioned, or the plays. They are owned by William Shakespeare. Enjoy!

Iago held his gaze, fixed on the woman before him, who stood as though a shadow beside the Thane of Cawdor, her husband. The two generals conversing with flowing continuity were silent to Iago's ears, and the other people around lost shape and faded like ghosts, much to Iago's pleasure, as though having vanished into the air. Such was the power of this man's determination and persistence in keeping this marble feminine statue locked in his scrutiny like a tiny mouse under the bulbous yellow eyes of a snake. Why he felt such desire to intimidate a complete stranger, and why he found her so striking, Iago knew not, but he relished in it.

 

He willed the force of his gaze to penetrate her, pierce her very being and embed itself within her, infect her.

 

_Penetrate her._

 

The woman turned toward him, just slightly, an imperceptible motion to her distracted lord who was lost in conversation beside her, but Iago noted it. Oh, he did. She stared back at him, blankly, as though in a trance, and Iago began to think his subtle sort of hypnotism was working. Pride swelled within him at his perceived victory.

 

But, alas, 'twas no victory.

 

The woman's eyes, sharp and catlike, narrowed as she peered straight into Iago's, whose own eyes widened. Never before had anyone stared at him with such aggression. Not only were her eyes such a harsh shape in this expression she wore, almost unnaturally so, her irises...contrasted with her small black pupils, were such a frosted, icy blue, Iago actually felt chilled. He averted his gaze from those cold, sharp turquoise eyes, perplexed at how powerfully daunting they were, and tried to feign an interest in some other thing, but...found he could not. His stare kept returning to the woman, avoiding her eyes, but noting other...particularly striking aspects of her figure. His eyes ran over her ivory skin, not like the so-called monumental alabaster of his lord's wife, the fair and gentle Desdemona, but more like bitingly frigid snow. He took in her rich, decadent cascade of brown hair, like a tempting piece of chocolate that one could not resist, in spite of knowing it would make them grow plump, or a murky drink with a deadly poison mixed in. And...oh, Iago cursed himself for this, it was _so unlike him_ , but...the woman's breasts, protruding from her, gave such a conspicuous façade of motherhood...but Iago knew, just _knew_ , those breasts had not one drop of nurturing, caregiving milk, but were filled with the bilious black poison of the deepest cruelty. Oh, he knew it. He knew it by the slight smirk that had crept onto the woman's lips as he gawked at her breasts, as though she were trying to hold back a self-satisfied cackle. He just knew that even though she seemed to have deferred the talking to her husband, she was the dominant partner here. He could tell all of this by the demeanor she gave off, silent but deadly, steeped in vice and scheming, plotting and manipulative in a menacing, cajoling way.

 

Very much like Iago himself.

 

And oh, how this discovery thrilled him.

 

When the meeting was over, thoughts spun around in Iago's head. He had before held all women in hateful, spiteful contempt, but...this one was a definite exception. He thought of her in all of her serpentine, deadly allure, and he knew...

 

He knew he would see her again.

 

Though she was married, he knew...

 

He would have her as his own.

 

 


	3. Undone, Undone, Undone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Hey, all! It’s Masked Man 2 again, here to regale you with Chapter 3. Enjoy!
> 
> Disclaimer: I only wish I owned the genius that was Shakespeare. If I did, I think I’d have set Iago and Lady Macbeth up on a blind date long ago. XD

 

She kept her gaze upon the man in fixation triumphant, taking from the patent discomfiture twisting his visage some perverse, deeply resonant pleasure which coiled taut and warm within her gut, and brought a faint hint of a leering smile, cloyingly, sickeningly sweet as envenom’d wine, to her lips. O, but he was undone, poor sap, sorely undone, and by naught save her unwitting charms! She had but cast upon him a single frosted glance (yet God only knew what glamors lay dormant within her eyes, for certainly they had some power to move men to their mistress’s will), and the strange, nearly hypnotic hold in which he had held her anachronistically enthralled had shattered, never to be erected again. No longer did he seem to stare through her with that abstracted, appetant detachment; now, he looked as determinedly at her as she did him, with a ghostly pallor about his thin lips, a concupiscent gleam to his direful pale eye, and a fevered hunger shadowing darkly the sharp hollows and angles of his face. And _O_ , how she reveled in the sight. How gaily her heart did sing, to see it all; how raucously her lubricious soul did laugh! Such savory sport lay herein!

 

‘Twas a most riveting sensation, to be thus enraptured with a man with whom she had ne’er exchanged word: riveting, and equally, singularly peculiar. Still, though there surely was something shameful to be had in discourse so salacious-- be it silent or not--, she could not bring herself to feel even a twinge of guilt. To be sure, she did her husband wrong in engaging in such unseemly sport...but then, when now did Macbeth incite within her passion and glee of such exquisite caliber? In faith, though she had married him as much for his physical prowess as for his status (it was not that she loved him not; she did, in her way, but neither had she any qualms in admitting to herself the... _inferiority_...of his mind, as it opposed to her own), he was away at war so frequently of late that she, made nearly delirious with boredom at being consigned to mind a fief that all but tended itself, would fain have done her _duty_ , as it were, with one of the _fishermen_ for want of novel diversion...though for a game more conducive to maintaining her acuity of mind she would have to seek elsewhere.

 

Well, could that not be here? Perhaps his untemper’d appetite struck him dumb now, but there was a wit to be found in the man opposite; of that she was certain. And even if that thought proved false, there was some latent attractiveness to his distant company yet, some magnetic quality that surpassed greatly aught to which she had grown accustomed. Having missed all that had transpired within the conference heretofore in lieu of pursuing this vein of contemplation, she could at least ascertain this much.

 

_THERE is a man_ , she decided, rising alongside her husband as the Moorish general touched the back of her hand to his thick umber lips in gracious farewell, _of whom I could grow most...fond_. Hypocritical, forsooth-- for she could feel, as the thought passed her mind, how her cool fingers grow warm as Macbeth enveloped them in his own, bluff affection radiating from even so little a touch--, but true nonetheless, and as she extended her free hand toward the Moor’s young lieutenant and allowed him to press three of his fingers (which he had sensuously kissed just prior) to hers, she could not keep the faint, but wicked smile from her lips.

 

Once the customary leave-takings were through, she would seek him out. There would be time enough to reprise that which had been discussed with her husband later, but now...O, but she _would_ seek the observer out. She would beg from him discourse, work upon him her insidious allures...and therein would lie her sport, her puckish, wicked sport, which she imagined she would enjoy _immensely_.

  
  


X X X

  
  


He had yet to stray from his place by the door, any semblance of concentration broken beyond repair as vituperations furious and unsolicited pounded through his head. What, pray, _what_ had possessed him so, that he should succumb so quickly to the damn’d harlot’s dubious charms? Fore God, but he had expected in seducing her with naught but a glance some measure of ease- ‘twas not _meant_ to be th’ other way round! _Confound it all._ He was a fool, a right bloody _fool_...but yet... _O, me, what dread counterfeit’s this_...he found that he did not quite _mind_. God only knew he reveled in the chase, the challenge of the hunt, and well...he could call the minx what spiteful terms he bloody well wished, but he could not deny that the novelty of being bested at his own game was more than a bit intriguing.

  
O, and now she was watching him again. Predatory, appraising, inflammatory...a world of cool judgement and lascivious fire flickered like minnows through her glassy eyes, and he felt the step of his stone-slow heart quicken almost painfully at the sight. A smile danced o’er her thin lips like a brilliant scarlet snake, laced with sweet, deadly poison, as close to that which coursed through his words and veins as aught he had e’er seen...and that thrilled him, to be frank; it truly did. At last, _at long last_ , he had come across another with whom he might see eye to eye; in faith, the vile ambition powering this woman’s heart seemed to seep from the very pores of her skin, twisting into him like thousands of dipped daggers small and drawing him, irrevocably, to her. But he would not resist, no, for he was not yet bereft of his own powers of _persuasion_. He could sway her to him yet...and whether she came willingly or not, the arrangement would surely benefit both.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, Lady Macbeth, you rotten scoundrel, you...oh, damn’d harlot, sorry. That explains why poor Iago’s all hot and bothered and more than a little out of character, I suppose. XD Okay, one: That might have been the most salacious piece of writing I’ve ever penned in my life. DAMN. That was hot. Two: For some strange reason, my ability to write in Shakespearean diction goes all to Hell when I try to write for Iago...I don’t know why. All I know is that I feel as though I sound inordinately British. Please tell me if I do; that’s just weird. :/
> 
> See you next time, for Chapter 4, which will be written by StrongButGentle!


	4. A Heart As Blacken'd and Poison'd

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note from Masked Man 2: Sorry this was so late! I’ll turn this over to StrongButGentle now. Enjoy!
> 
> NOTE: If you don't know what this story is all about, see my author's note at the top of Chapter 2, or else you won't understand a thing lol. I found from www.forestfaire.com/language-g… and www.museangel.net/speak.html (Flute-Maniac, use these websites for help if you need it!) that in the Renaissance, "thee" and "thou" was used informally (with people close to you), while "you" was used formally (with superiors, strangers, etc.). But I decided to have Iago and Lady Macbeth address each other with "thee" and "thou" just to make it more flowy and Shakespearean-sounding...and because these two are definitely NOT strangers to each other ;)  
> I do not own Iago, Lady Macbeth, Othello, Macbeth, or either of the plays. They are owned by William Shakespeare. Enjoy! :D

Right then, at that very moment...a lusciously deceitful, decadent plan formed in Lady Macbeth's vile, wicked, poisonous mind. A plan that thrilled her as an impishly delighted, almost maniacal smile spread across her face. This was...a truly cold and scathing act, though. She knew it as, watching her husband, who had already walked away a few steps, she felt the tiniest prick of guilt. But still, it was one that she could hardly wait to execute, one she knew would cut her husband right to the core.

 

She glanced down at her left hand and spread out her thin, pale ivory fingers, which on one of them her wedding ring twinkled softly in the darkish luminescence of the chamber. Love for her dear Macbeth swelled within her for a moment, but then fell as the scheming, fiendish smile returned to her face. She ever so slightly moved her right hand to slide the ring from her finger and let it drop to the floor, the dull clink muffled by the sound of the men's footsteps walking out of the chamber. Seeing the ring laying on the floor, Lady Macbeth noticed that it had been slightly broken from the impact; the stone had chipped. A tiny shard glinted beside it.

 

"Well, come hither, wife, we must take our leave," Macbeth beckoned her.

 

"I will be but a moment," Lady Macbeth answered, quickly covering the ring with the hem of her dress. "For't seems I have lost my wedding ring."

 

"Ay, me!" Sudden worry marred Macbeth's expression. "We must find't."

 

"I will help her look for't."

 

All heads turned to Iago, who had spoken.

 

"How kind of thee, Iago, to help this lady find the token of her love," Othello noted.

 

A small smile played at the corner of Iago's lip as he looked straight at Lady Macbeth, his dim gray eyes gleaming with menace. "But of course."

 

Lady Macbeth smiled pleasantly at her husband. "Do take thy leave, darling, I will be with thee anon. I am sure this gentleman and I will find't." She reached up to kiss Macbeth's cheek.

 

Macbeth stared at her for a moment. "If that is thy will, my dear," he said quietly.

 

He and others turned and left the chamber. As they did, Iago silently approached the door and carefully started to close it. A euphoric, lustful hotness rapidly rose within Lady Macbeth. She couldn't believe this was really happening!

 

Iago was peeking through the narrow crack in the door, waiting until every last person had vanished, waiting like a predator in the underbrush to pounce on his quarry. When they all had faded away, he let go of the handle and let the door slam shut, the sound reverberating off the chamber walls. He then turned and strode towards Lady Macbeth, her excitement brimming as he did.

 

In one split-second movement, he grabbed her around the waist in both his arms, crushing her so tightly and violently she felt her breath grow shallow. She couldn't move. At all.

 

"What is't that you truly desire, lady?" he whispered in her ear.

 

Her arms came around him as she gazed up at the ceiling. "I wish but for one such as I, sir...one with a mind as vile, cruel, and scheming as mine own...and a heart just as blacken'd and poison'd," she choked out.

 

Iago's grip loosened. He paused, staring at Lady Macbeth for a moment, before saying,

 

"Thou hast met thy match, then."

 

With one arm still around her back, he roughly grabbed the back of her head in his other hand, clenching a fistful of her hair, and started kissing her profusely, greedily, all but devouring her in kisses. And she kissed him back just as ravenously.

 

After a few minutes of this, she pulled away, gasping for air. "What hast thou done to claim such cruelty, I pray thee?"

 

"The general, Othello..." Iago said. "I follow him to serve my turn upon him."

 

Lady Macbeth peered into his eyes, enraptured.

 

"By God above, I will bring him to ruin," Iago swore.

 

The corners of Lady Macbeth's lips twitched into a small smile and her eyes shone. She blinked. "Be mine, then, villain."

 

With that, Iago shoved Lady Macbeth flat onto the table and climbed on top of her, kissing her ferociously again as she fully embraced it. His kisses slid down to her neck and he peeled back her dress to expose the bare skin of her shoulder, kissing and sucking on it. Her arms came around him, pulling him closer, inviting him, as he did. He couldn't get enough of her.

 

"What of thee, lady? What is thy cruelty?" he requested.

 

She snickered. "'Tis of such direness that may even rival that of thee."

 

Iago's kisses trailed from Lady Macbeth's lips down her neck, pausing at her chest. In that moment, he ripped open the bodice of her dress, fully baring her cleavage toward the ceiling, as though an offering.

 

"There is no mother's milk here," Iago murmured into her breasts, his hand slipping beneath her dress and grasping her left one. "No...naught but poison."

 

Lady Macbeth let out a soft sigh of pleasure. "Dost thou see't yet?" She smirked.

 

Iago's left hand slid up to rest on Lady Macbeth's neck and his other hand tightly clenched her right breast.

 

"Tell me," he whispered hungrily in her ear. "What art thou?"

 

"I am but as devilish as thou must be," Lady Macbeth whispered, her voice thick, hot, and laced with sweet, seductive poison.

 

"Where is it," Iago snarled. "The dark place within thee."

 

Lady Macbeth laughed out loud. "Canst thou find't?" She was bantering him quite willfully at this point. And damn, he was going to put this minx in her place.

 

He slapped her hard across the face, leaving a burning red mark on her cheek.

 

But just as he knew it, this woman was not going to go down without a fight.

 

With unpredictable strength, she shoved Iago off of her, sending him tumbling backwards off the table onto the floor.

 

He jumped back up, grabbed her, and pulled her onto the floor beneath him, all but smothering her in intense kissing. Her arms wrapped around him and, casting her skirt back, her legs wrapped around him, too. Her rich brown hair was sprawled on the floor as Iago ran his hands through it.

 

When they pulled away, Lady Macbeth spent a few moments gazing into Iago's light gray eyes, which, although appearing dim and mysterious, seemed to hold all the wit, cunning, and evil in the world in them. She reached up and lightly traced the scars on his face, which somehow seemed to make the man appear even more sinister...and she loved it. She sighed. She truly had finally met her match, just as he said. A kind of mixture of contentment and thrill rose within her, just at the sheer joy of having finally found him. A sense of completeness filled her soul.

 

Iago picked her up and lifted her back onto the table, burying his face in her hair and kissing the side of her neck again. She held him close to her and her legs came around him, as if to take out of him as much as she could. She felt one of his hands clasp her bare thigh, the other hand running through her hair, and his warm breath as he sighed into her.

 

"Never once ere tonight did methinks I would meet a woman such as thee," he said softly into where her neck met her shoulder.

 

"Verily, I am as thou sayest, for I am no fair flower, no gentle lady, but one who may perform vicious and bloody deeds with not a drop o' mercy," she said to him.

 

The words were like music to Iago's ears. "Thou art the rarity of woman, to be such a way." He started kissing her intensely again.

 

\--

 

"Were it that I could stay with thee till morrow," Lady Macbeth said sometime later, neither of them having any idea how much time had passed. "But I should take my leave, lest my husband wonders whither I be."

 

Iago sighed. "Ay, indeed."

 

She leaned in to whisper to him, "When shall I meet thee again?"

 

He faced her, stared at her for a moment, then placed his hands on her shoulders, and said softly in her ear, as though telling a secret, "In two nights' time, at the banquet. Find me there."

 

Meeting his eyes, she said, "I will."

 

His gaze dropped to the floor. "There lies thy ring, that thou lost." He smirked at her.

 

Lady Macbeth's head spun to face the floor. "Marry! There 'tis."

 

Iago let himself snicker at her as she slipped off the table, reached for her ring, and slid it back on her finger. He also took note of a tiny shard sparkling on the floor, that he had no doubt must have been part of the ring, broken off from the impact of its bearer dropping it.

 

After Lady Macbeth smoothed out her dress and hair, Iago took her arm to lead her out. Lady Macbeth knew this gesture was to appear towards her husband as polite and protective of a lady, but she, and only she, knew from his tight hold that it was really one of lust and possessiveness.

 

\--

 

"Didst thou find thy ring?" Macbeth asked when they reached him.

 

"Ay, here 'tis." Lady Macbeth held up her hand.

 

"My thanks to thee, sir. I bid thee good night," Macbeth said, shaking Iago's hand.

 

"A kind good night to thee as well." Iago's eyes turned to Lady Macbeth. "And to thy wife." With that, he reached for Lady Macbeth, who readily offered her hand. The moment his fingertips just lightly touched her hand, a tingle jolted through Lady Macbeth at lightning speed. Iago pressed a kiss to her hand, his devious gray eyes smirking up at her all the while.

 

"Fare thee well, sir," Macbeth said as he sent Iago off.

 

"And to thee," Iago said in return, sending one last glance at Lady Macbeth.

 

"What hast torn thy gown?" Macbeth asked, eyeing the gash that tore down the bodice of his wife's dress.

 

"Oh...'twas torn by a tree branch on my way," Lady Macbeth quickly lied.

 

"Ay, well...let us to bed, my love. I have since grown most weary." Macbeth put his arm around her waist. She realized only just then how instinctive it was for Macbeth; the affection and intimacy he showed towards her, even in the smallest ways. Yet she knew still that, despite having a husband who loved her, there was another man out there who was the most perfect companion for her, alike in a shrewd, insidious, depraved mind and heart. This was a place that even the most loving man in the world could not fill without these qualities to satisfy her.

 

"As you will," she said, a bit coldly.

 

\--

 

"How now, wife," Iago said calmly when he returned home, not wanting to appear at all suspicious.

 

"How fares thee, Iago?" Emilia asked in her low, monotonous, indifferent voice. Iago knew she actually cared not a jot about him. He couldn't say he cared for her, either.

 

"Very well," he replied.

 

His wife was resigned, bitter, jaded, a woman truly hateful of men, especially her own marriage and probably her own husband. There was not a drop of passion or excitement between she and Iago; the romantic state of their marriage amounted to little more than that of a traditional arranged marriage. They might as well be strangers to each other...actually, more often they were nuisances and afflictions to each other. Emilia was...really nothing more than dull and tiresome to be around as opposed to that devious, beguiling, fiercely wicked woman.

 

Though Emilia was to accompany him to the banquet, as she was his wife, Iago was free to, and actually sort of expected to, socialize with other women, even if for the sake of courtesy and politeness. He normally would dread this, but...that woman was a definite exception.

 

 


	5. Lust Be My Lady, Fortune Be My Fool

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Well. Ah...hello? Anyone remember me? Yeah...thought not. 
> 
> Bad jokes aside, I am SO SORRY that this is so late. I don’t know what happened; school kind of kicked my motivation to write in the arse, and before I knew it...a month had gone by. A literal month. I have no words. I’m so bleeding sorry.
> 
> Well, I don’t own Othello; you know how it goes. Apologies in advance for how bad this is.

So late was the hour that the night’s moon, but a thin white claw curling over the thick swaths of billowing cloud crowding the sky, was just beginning its descent, and yet, try as she might, she still could take no solace in sleeping Morpheus’s arms. Rather than succumb to _that_ tempting embrace, her mind remained stubbornly ensconced in th’ remembrance of those blissful hours so recently past, and the crushing, possessive lock of another’s grasp about her. So filled with grace, with strength, with fury, with _passion_ had those arms been that had thus ensnared her! What delightful diablerie existed within the mind that had those arms commanded: fit to rival even that which lay coiled in her own, and wasn’t that a realization yet unprecedented….

Really, her rapidly burgeoning obsession with that blam’d ensign was threatening to grow to properly ludicrous proportions. No longer could she gaze up at the cloud-pallid autumn sky, for fear of seeing naught within but the ashen ice of _his_ keen eyes...though _fear_ , were she to be honest with herself, it truly was not. No longer could she bear to catch but a glimpse of the old wounds scored in dimpled white over Macbeth’s battle-broadened arms and red-furred chest, for in doing so, she could think only of the stark, jagged scars marring the other man’s dark, gaunt face. Even now, lying abed beside her slumbering husband as she was, she could see not him-- not the man to whom she had been wed bless’d long-- but the _other_ , that damnable, so-desired other!

She should feel ashamed, she knew; God above, but she should feel sorely ashamed. Indeed, there did lay half-sown within her heart some small seed of what might, in one less malign and vile, have been regret, but the more she thought upon it...was it e’en that? That she would even deign to waste precious thought on something so trifling as _regret_ was anachronism enough to give her pause, for it had long been a sentiment whose black bile had ne’er her heart so much as touched. Were she to hazard a guess (not being one particularly inclined towards introspection), she might say that her consternation, for what little it was worth, sprung more from the _absence_ of any true remorse than aught else. Shame and propriety and convention be damned, but she craved the enigmatic ensign’s presence far too much.

Sliding one arm slowly, nearly tenderly, over her Macbeth’s thick waist, she willed her eyes to close, and surrendered at last to the luxurious allurement of imagining a body wrought of different flesh beneath her serpentine caress, abandoning wholly any hesitant tenors of thought might once have possessed and embracing with naught of rue the utter rightness to be found in substituting for her snoring bear of a husband the image of her dark paramour.

_A body lean and taut, feverishly warm upon and against her own. Eyes the silver of rain’s pall, gleaming thunderhead-dark with a savage lust whose mercy she had only ever been at in dreams. Square hands, sword-worn and strong and gaunt, making their sinful acquaintance with all of her most cherished and hidden places, venturing brazenly to depths not even Macbeth’s blunt hands had e’er dared explore. A low voice, rough like wool and sand and rock battered and rolled by sea and storm, sidling forth from thin, chiseled lips like a snake from the ground in dread winter’s wake, slithering into her ears and heart and mind and taking up residence within to conceive what devilishly coveted spawn pleased it._

_O_ , but the very thought did please her much. God have mercy upon her, but _it did please her much_.

****  
  


X X X

****  
  


He stood still and silent before the open casement while his wife slept obliviously on, gazing out across the crenellated walls of the Citadel as was his wont, but this night, his mind roiled not with schemes and half-wrought plans and jealous villainy’s tangled threads as it had for so many nights previous, but by the most unexpected, nearly unwelcome imagining of... _her_. The Thane’s wife, that bleeding whore, whose wily and capricious heart seemed subdued even to the very quality of his own, so full was it of divine devilry and spite. Though in vain he tried to sway the persuasion of his thought to some direction opposite its preferred course, the image of _her_ nonetheless managed to insinuate itself into every recess of his mind, rendering him unable to contemplate aught else but the little-forgotten sensation of her skin of china down brushing his, and the eager burn of her eyes of winter’s icy breath against even his most blackened desires.

_O, you can rail against it all you like, wretched sod,_ the more iniquitous voice within him hissed, _but you who call yourself so honest can never truly claim to mind, can you?_ And indeed, the blasted images returned to the forefront of his consciousness in vividity ever-growing, as though the very humors of Hell had conspired to draw them forth purely of the pleasure of tormenting him with the allure of them. _Well. I thought as much._

To hold near to him so vile a minx as she-- to penetrate, to _possess_ so base, so dear a one as she-- s’blood, but it had ignited within him a fire of such ardent fury he had ne’er had cause to imagine. What _did_ she to him, this vixen whose charms had worked upon him thus and left his wits thus wild? What hold had she over him, and he over her, to provoke with such swiftness the development of so potent a chemistry as that which existed betwixt the two of them even now? Did it even merit thought? For certainly he could, like as not, get on just as well without expending  too much of what precious reason was not now bereft him on this ruthless pursuit of _her_ …

... _Fie upon’t_ , but it could never be that bloody _simple_ , could it? Had he desired her merely for her body, he could undoubtedly have dealt with what he would have perceived as a passing fancy with enough of ease, but it was (much to his detriment, he realized) fast becoming clear to him that this... _thing_ between them, whatever it was, was more than that... _far more_. He longed to possess not just her body-- that wicked earthly vessel so nubile and pliant between his hands, like warm clay yet shot through with sharpest steel-- but the whole of her mind and soul; her depraved heart cried out to his like some devil’s lantern in the night, a bewitch’d harbinger of all the malice that his own soul hungered so greatly for.

He would have her for his own, to be sure, but it seemed she had him just as deep in her thrall. Indeed, some strange spell had been woven ‘twixt the two of them this night, and, sorely ensnared though he was, he could now sense beyond the ubiquitous darkness that writhed within him some small flicker of...hope. Such a small thing, ‘twas-- naught but a dull glimmer, a weak pulse-- but it remained all the same, burning, throbbing, _aching_ for this devil’s work to last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, not much plot in this chapter (StrongButGentle and I decided to write a couple of little fillers like this ere the long-awaited banquet scene could be contrived), but it was fun all the same, for all the HELL OF A BLOODY LONG TIME IT TOOK ME TO PULL THIS OUT OF MY BUTT...but I’m ranting again. I ought to stop now, d’ya know wot I mean? XD
> 
> I have a private headcanon that Iago is a serious insomniac. I have no idea why. :/ Also, forgive any OOC-ness that might have shown up; love makes fools of us all, and lust even more so. ;)
> 
> Anyway, I hope some kind soul out there will review, and be sure to tune it sometime in the near future for the next chapter, written by my pal StrongButGentle! Until then, ¡ciao, todos!


	6. Twin Flames of Passion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I bring you StrongButGentle and Chapter 6! Happy Thanksgiving from me to you Americans!
> 
> NOTE: Hey, everybody! It sure has been a while...  
> If you haven't already, go see the last chapter! For now, enjoy, and have a happy Thanksgiving!  
> I do not own Lady Macbeth, Iago, Emilia, Othello, Desdemona, or the plays Othello and Macbeth. They are owned by William Shakespeare.

Eventually Iago's eyelids grew heavy and his restless eyes started to ache for sleep. The man, with his complex, intricately shrewd and sinister mind, vileness winding through it without end, would almost always find himself awake for many hours of the night. But eventually he would give in to just a few hours of light, dreamless sleep until morrow.

 

He slipped into bed, facing his wife. Emilia was always completely silent when asleep, except for the occasional sigh. This from the miserable wretch did not surprise Iago at all. Her dull, limp hair fell over her face while she lay still in bed, loose for now but by day tied in an unkempt bun to keep it out of her way. Iago touched his fingertips to the palm of his hand, summoning the memory of that woman's rich, bounteous, fiery deep brown hair. He closed his eyes and sighed with gratification at the memory of such a sensation, picturing himself pulling the tresses, running his hands ravenously though them, kissing them... The lady's devilishly melodious voice echoed in his mind, so deep and smooth and poisonously sweet...her skin was so supple, so pliant beneath his rough fingers, yet never bruising or breaking...

 

He could scarcely wait until this woman was his and his entirely. But, ever the master of self-discipline and careful concocting, he told himself to wait. He knew that if he was patient and precise, he could make this work exactly how he wanted.

 

His mind finally at ease knowing this, sleep soon found him.

 

\--

 

Where the Moorish general rested beside his own wife, he thought of what had happened that evening. He had seen how Iago and Macbeth's wife seemed to be so...enthralled in each other...with such intensity, fascination, and awe, as if transfixed by each other... What had caused such a powerful allure between them?

He gazed at his own wife, who beside him slept quietly and peacefully. He moved a little closer to her, feeling her calm, rhythmic breath from her rosy lips, over and over again. She looked a bit like the Thane's wife, but...more fresh and youthful, not just less advanced in years, but uncorrupted by the world and its evils. Her features were smoother and kinder, her skin a gentle ivory tint, her hair a warm and soft chestnut shade. Her eyes, though now closed, looked so serene and content, with her dark, delicate eyelashes, and eyelids that were like white butterfly wings. When open, her eyes were as brown and gleaming and innocent as a young doe's...such a contrast to those of Macbeth's wife, which were as harsh and piercing as two pieces of blue ice.

 

In his state of worry, Othello couldn't help but wonder if Iago and the woman had done anything in the council chamber other than search for the woman's wedding ring. He knew he was probably just being paranoid, but he could not help it...because...God forgive him, but he had his doubts of his own wife's faithfulness. Running his fingertips down the silky skin of Desdemona's cheek, he never wanted to lose her to another man. He shuddered a little at the thought. For now, he tried to put these misgivings aside as he pulled Desdemona closer to him, hearing the crumple of her nightgown beneath his arms.

 

He loved her, more than anything in the world. That much he knew. He closed his eyes and kissed her forehead before falling asleep himself.

 

\--

 

The full day after that, Lady Macbeth could think of nothing but the man whose fierce, passionate, consuming embrace she had relished in last night. It had been so...fulfilling, so completing. She rubbed her arms, yearning to feel the man's strength encircling again, all around her, given entirely to her. Her ears ached to hear the whisper of low, hushed voice, like cool wind or an ocean wave, that so captivated her. It resonated relentlessly in her mind, tantalizing her.

 

She had never experienced anything at all like what had happened last night...and she loved it. She wanted more...she couldn't get enough. That man was the partner of her wildest, most wicked and decadent dreams. She knew it. Macbeth loved her, and she loved him, in her own way, but...he just could not fully satisfy her.

 

By evening, when the sun had begun its descent and streaked the sky with fiery red rays, Lady Macbeth realized...it was around this time that she would normally be hoping Macbeth would come home soon, if only to give her some company. But strangely...she wasn't. As the bars of bright crimson shone through the window, she felt no longing at all for Macbeth's return. It wasn't that she wanted him to stay away, but...it was like she didn't really care.

 

Who she wanted right now was Iago. Her body, her mind, her very being kept yearning for him.

 

As she gazed at the glowing sunset of flaming red, more than it reminded her of Iago, it reminded her of...herself. She was hot...sweltering hot. Passion, wantonness, ardor, fervor...it all raged within her, ferociously, without ceasing. The fire in her was ravenous, unquenchable, insatiable...just never going out, never dying down. Macbeth had always come off to her as being warm...full o' the milk o' human kindness, as she had once said. But the warm air he gave off was only fanning her flames...luring them to devour him too. The fire in Lady Macbeth was intense, and as much as it was a part of her that she cherished, it was exhausting too... What she sought was someone cool to balance her out and share in her heat.

 

Iago was icy cold. So detached, so apathetic and solemn...she had perceived this the night before when she had locked eyes with him and felt his sharp coldness sting the heat in her, like tiny droplets from the tips of icicles. Yet he was so calculating and shrewd, too...she noted as she had fixed her piercing gaze on those wintry gray eyes of his, like a sheet of ice over the surface of a lake, so cold yet so fierce. And she had wholeheartedly embraced the wintry air he emanated as it tingled her all over. And when he had embraced her with such vehemence...he had all but extinguished the fire in her. He had cut off her flow of hot air, so she could scarcely breathe, blasting the shock white cold through her like a tempest of ice. It tormented her...and she loved it.

  
And she could tell...she just could tell...that some of her scorching heat had reached him. She had flickered a spark in him...one that she was sure, if it hadn't already, would kindle something much bigger...a fire that would dance within him, enliven him, swallow him up and possess him. Since this searing heat was so addicting, too, Iago would keep coming back to its source, back to her, for more. These two were twin flames, after all. A smile played at the corner of Lady Macbeth's lip at the thought.


	7. One Night Through Which A Should Could Fly

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: So, another long wait (I think it’s been all too well established that I, Masked Man 2 (AKA Flute-Maniac) am the procrastinator of us two. :/ Anyway, as a late Christmas present (or holiday gift, to those of you who don’t celebrate Christmas), here’s Chapter 7!
> 
> I apologize for the fact that this is rather short (and for the fact that it is really quite bad); I just wanted to get something out.
> 
> Disclaimer: Sith I have not the pleasure of being able to claim birth in the sixth-and-tenth century, I cannot claim to own those works of such great mastery and artistry as belong to the holy Bard. ...That sucked.

The days preceding the great feast passed in a fever of anticipation for man, woman, soldier, slave, and all withal alike, but none felt impatience’s dread bite quite so keenly as did the Lady Macbeth, who waited in rather anachronistically thrilled agony for the coveted opportunity to be once more reunited with the ensign of whom she had grown so fond.The very thought of so desirable a prospect was enough to allow her to perceive time as passing evermore fleetly by, a winged Mercury bearing the message of her lustful ardor hence to the couch of Bacchus upon which her happily sullied soul begged to be possessed. 

 

Never mind that the celebration’s all too public setting would in her endeavors render the need for discretion invaluable; never mind that _convention_ bade her remain by her husband’s side throughout the night, a passive and unassuming devotee. God passed no judgement on those _men_ who saw fit to play truant and dally with the women of others; why should the women, so fair and true of heart by virtue of societal stifling, be so harshly condemned for indulging their senses and passions in like kind? _Hang_ all thought of propriety, and integrity, and marriage’s binding vows, as well! She would have her sport come feast night, as fully as any man whose wit she could claim equality with, honor and virtue and grace be damned. An ‘twere it come to pass that God should strike her blind and beat her with hands of stone to punish so glorious an adultery, she would laugh. She would laugh, and laugh, and laugh still more, enthralled and enraptured by her august spite.

  
  


X X X 

  
  


The morning of the feast dawned bright and clear and cold, and though she could not help but think that some sort of lugubrious mist might prove more conducive to pursuing her covert purpose, the tranquil air nevertheless filled her blackened heart with an invigorating sense of promise. ‘Twas as though all Gods smiled upon her this day, condoning and pardoning what clandestine and lurid actions she would later undertake, and for this reason, she endured with sanguine grace the dotings of her husband and the primping of her lady-in-waiting, a grace which did her prime and impassioned state belie. After all, there were but few hours left til she could connect with her bewitching hidden paramour once more, and not even a passing shadow of self-reproof at her dependence on the man’s presence could deter her from her gaiety. 

  
  


X X X 

  
  


The gown she donned was the pale slate of highland mist, of shimmering silk so like the wintry pallor of her ancient’s eyes that she could feel, keenly, how devilish heat coiled low and warm within her belly at so blatant a show of daring artifice and wicked, if self-contained, rebellion. She wore her rich mahogany locks piled loose and high, anticipating eagerly the sensation of  _ his _ long, calloused, scarred fingers unpinning them and tangling themselves in their depths, as their bodies lay flush against one another beneath lust-spotted sheets indicative of their previous nights’ sport taken thrilling steps forward. She had but a few hours’ privation remaining, ere her fantasies could become reality, and knew, in her heart of besmirched hearts, that this long, forced period of three days’ and nights’ respite would only further fan the flames of eros that burned so hot within her. Just a few hours more, and the prize, the gem of that dream, would be wholly hers for the taking.

 

The sudden sound of her husband entering their shared chamber wrenched her from her musings with nearly painful alacrity, and she quickly schooled her features to a neutral, pleasant mask that revealed naught of the lewd thoughts that had so effortlessly traversed her mind but moments afore. Turning to face Macbeth with a torrid smile playing about her lips, she let herself go to him and dragged her hands slowly up his broad chest, feeling the soft wool of his ceremonial chlamys rasp against her palms as she wound them about his neck. He stood still for a moment in the interim, keeping his slate blue gaze steadily locked upon hers as he regarded her with the sort of self-effacing stupefaction that her marks of seductive influence always wrought upon him. It was precisely that dullness that comprised the root cause of all of her aggrievement with her husband of  so many years, but then…’twas no hardness to dissemble. She could play at galvanic romance as well as any other, were the occasion to call for’t. 

 

“Husband, what make you here?” she asked, her voice sultry and low, as was its wont at times such as these. “Are you come to be my escort, that you stand there apart, with such gallant diffidence in your eyes?”

“I would be hard-pressed to assume any other role,” he replied, his own voice thick and husky as he finally roused himself from his torpidity and let his large, strong hands drift easily over her back to rest upon her buttocks, cupping her possessively to him. He rubbed his nose, crooked from scraps long past, gently along the curve of her jaw, taking in with palpable contentment the alluring scent of jasmine that she had earlier dabbed at her pulse points. “I would fain think you a goddess, wife, for such beauty as is possessed by you ought not to be had by any mere mortal.”

 

Well. He  _ did _ have some grace in his tongue, for all that he was as dour and blunt a military statesman as ever the Scottish isles did see. She would give him that much credit, at least.

 

“If I do possess such unearthly beauty,” she simpered, her dulcet tones dropping sinfully low, dripping with her singular brand of envenomed honey and deception, “it is for your sake, and your sake alone, that I do carry it about me. So too is all my work done for your gain; is that not so?” 

“How fortunate I am, that I can say ‘ay’ with such ease,” he replied, his lips parting in a grin of such bald, guileless appreciation that her heart spasmed, but briefly, with a pang of grief at so heartily and easily deceiving this man, who ne’er had done her wrong. Still, that pain passed, so quickly that she could not be sure that she had felt anything at all, in the wake of her still-unbridled anticipation for the night ahead.

 

As Macbeth continued to whisper in her ear empty words of sweet laudation during their progression through the corridors of the Arsenal, she let her thoughts wander while she cozied herself up against him, knowing that he liked this wordless, passive submission just as well as the sharp and bright passion and wit that would so often overtake his own. The passing grief of earlier was naught but hazy memory now; that she had him even now in her thrall was cause enough to warrant her taking from this base and worthless exchange a perverse pleasure. Even so...though it was a pleasure both titillating and agreeable, ‘twas yet but a fleeting thing, a mere facsimile of the all-consuming and conflagrant satisfaction for which she so dearly longed.

 

If she could but endure this loose and uninspiring embrace for just moment longer, she would soon have all of that sought-after satisfaction, and more, besides. If she could but restrain her energies for mere hours more, she would soon find herself once again reunited with her handsome blade of ice and fire and stone and earth: her grave ensign, come to her for the sole purpose of bestowing upon her soul one night’s worth of blessed, blessed illumination. One night through which her soul could ignite, and spark, and burn, and soar, before crumbling to stagnant ash in the wake of his departure from her side. One night through which she, of heart long dead of malice’s sweet and wretched venom, could finally,  _ finally _ fly.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, no Iago this time around, but I promise he’ll be back soon enough; he and Lady MacB still need to get to their shagging...I mean dancing...I mean...well, I think that’s enough said for now, don’t you? ;)


	8. Poisoned Lips Against My Own

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note from Masked Man 2: Here’s StrongButGentle!
> 
> NOTE: It's back! See -- for the previous chapter. And...wow, this one is long. A short chapter followed by a long chapter! :D  
> WARNING: This chapter is full of so much drama and randomness... My muse must really have been on crack during the first draft...  
> To the person who requested that Flute-Maniac and I include Roderigo in this story, I couldn't quite yet, but he will come up soon! :)  
> Oh, and I don't know if I posted these already, but here are some websites that I use to help with Shakespeare language, in case Flute-Maniac or anybody else needs them:  
> www.royalfaires.com/Study%20Gu…  
> www.forestfaire.com/language-g…  
> www.museangel.net/speak.html  
> the-ringing-isle.blogspot.com/…  
> nrmsrenaissance.wikispaces.com…  
> www.renfair.com/ny/join/langua…  
> learn.lexiconic.net/shakewords… 

Emilia readied for the banquet she was to attend alongside her husband, struggling with her unruly hair that only ever cooperated if tied in a bun and kept out of her way each day. It was unaccustomed to being styled in such an elaborate manner as a formal event demanded of ladies. At least the dull teal evening gown she wore was fairly comfortable. ...Truth to be told, it was a bit cumbersome, as the skirt was so much wider and fuller than she was used to, and the long, tight sleeves made her arms itch. She was yearning inside to be allowed to wear one of her everyday dresses, but alas, she could not.

 

She pounded her fist on the dresser in frustration, upsetting some other trinkets laid across it. Why did she have to put herself through such trouble for  _ him _ , of all people?! Yes, she was joined to Iago in marriage, but he was as much of a husband as a neglectful and careless woman with child was a mother. He was to her as the monthly flow of blood was to woman; she did not choose it, but was stuck with it, and oh how it vexed her.

 

As they both prepared for the event, neither of them had spoken a word to each other, and the usual resentful silence pervaded their household. They really were not spouses in any way so much as they were just two people bound by marriage. Emilia imagined the other guests of the feast with their wives right now, a husband probably relishing in his wife's beauty, entangled in an intimate embrace.

 

She sighed. As bitter as she was towards her husband, sometimes she wished for such an amorous marriage she could call her own. Sometimes she just wished Iago would love her.

 

From where Iago prepared for the banquet, he slipped a small object into his pocket...

 

\--

 

When the time of the feast arrived, as he entered with his wife, Iago was finding it hard to calm himself into his usual composed, collected, detached manner. He found a small part of himself strangely enthused...particularly to spend another rapturously passionate night with the woman he had grown so...attached to. He would normally have not enjoyed a moment of this feast, had he not come across the most extraordinary, most alluring specimen that was that woman.

 

Wait...was she even there yet?

 

Running his gaze across the populous room of men and women in formal wear, Iago was sure he would know her when he saw her, for she was so set apart, in almost a preternatural way, from the saccharine, perverse,&nbspirksome women that so disgusted Iago... But he calmly told himself to remain patient. He would see her when he saw her.

 

Various guests politely greeted him and his wife, and Iago apathetically muttered the automatic formalities in return, still unable to turn his thoughts to anything other than the image of the woman.

 

Finally, Emilia spotted Desdemona, the general's young wife, who stood several feet away in a deep crimson gown. She was sprightly and cheerful as she held the arm of her husband, who simply seemed pleased to have her close by, while keeping a watchful eye on her. Emilia immediately went to talk to her, and they both seemed to brighten when she did.

 

Though it seemed longer to Iago, it was mere minutes before the heavy iron door opened, Iago immediately glanced toward it, and...

 

...in Lady Macbeth walked with her husband.

 

Iago noticed at once the long, flowing gown of softly glittering silver worn by the lady, that gave her so angelic and mild an appearance...but Iago, and he alone, knew this was a façade most false. Her decadent, sinfully rich brown tresses were piled high on her head, unreachable for now, but still loose, as if teasing him, like the waters that approached Tantalus but then receded when he reached for a drink... Iago silently cursed the minx for this. Later he would rip through that luscious hair of hers until it pained her.

She had a most cordial and pleasant smile on her face as she gazed around the room and proceeded to greet the other guests with her husband, a mask that Iago knew would melt away the moment they were alone, to reveal her true devious and wicked nature.

 

When Macbeth and his wife saw Iago, they approached him and...Iago noticed then that Emilia had returned to his side. He figured that Othello and Desdemona had probably snuck off to some darkened corner of the room to make out.

 

Macbeth smiled. "God-den, sir. How fares thee?"

 

"Most well, sir, and thee?" Iago replied.

 

"Well indeed. Wouldst this lady be thy wife?" Macbeth glanced at Emilia.

 

"Aye, this is Emilia," Iago said.

 

"Well met, my lady." Macbeth bowed at the waist to her, as Emilia gave a small curtsy.

 

Emilia then turned to the Thane's wife, who smiled warmly at her. "Hail and well met, Emilia." They lightly grasped each other's shoulders and kissed the air beside each other's cheeks.

 

It seemed to be an expectation that ladies generally treated each other like sisters, though Lady Macbeth had known of women and girls who treated each other heinously. Lady Macbeth herself could not claim to be innocent of the act...for the one she had just met was the wife of the man she had taken. Knowing this, she cast a sly smirk at Iago from over Emilia's shoulder.

 

\--

 

A few hours later, when Lady Macbeth just so happened to end up in a more obscure area of the room, someone suddenly grabbed her by the wrist. She gasped sharply.

 

"Shhh, lady," a voice whispered.

 

Lady Macbeth knew that voice. She knew it very well.

 

She turned around to face Iago.

 

Lady Macbeth snickered. "Thou art a villain to seek me out at such an hour as now. My leave with thee shall be agnized."

 

Iago took her by the shoulders and spoke softly in her ear, "I am no more villainous than thee."

 

\--

 

'Twas a night of revels, with chatter and laughter ringing through the room, the sway of dancing couples, the slosh of ruby red wine and telling of bawdy jokes, and surely others who had vanished from the room to get up to...other things out of sight.

 

Emilia had spent most of the night so far chatting with Desdemona, who had never once escaped her husband's watchful eye.

 

Wait. Was...that a woman Iago was with, across the room? A woman other than Emilia? But Iago hated women...

 

_ Ah, well, _ Emilia thought, shaking her head.  _ Too much drink oft causes men to love what they e'er day despise. _

 

She could care less.

 

\--

 

They had barely left the room and entered the spacious balcony when, right after Lady Macbeth closed the door, Iago savagely slammed her against it, held her down, and started hungrily kissing her. Lady Macbeth laced one arm around him, pulling him closer as she kissed him just as fiercely. Iago's hand traveled down to grasp her thigh, while his other hand clenched her wrist against the door.

 

Lady Macbeth felt both melting hot and icy cold inside, her heart pounding, both heat and coldness all at once coating her skin and coursing through her. She had only just started, but she couldn't stop.

 

Several torrid moments later, Iago peeled the silk sleeves away from Lady Macbeth's shoulders, the cool night air pricking her skin as one of his hands slipped beneath her gown to clasp her bare breast. He moved down to start ferociously kissing her neck, her bare shoulder, and her other breast, sucking on and biting the skin hard enough that Lady Macbeth was sure some marks and bruises would be left behind.

 

She was relishing in every moment of this. She could scarcely take it. It just kept getting more and more decadent and sensuous. A piercing moan escaped her...

 

...Until Iago violently pulled her hair, yanking her head back.

 

"Silence, strumpet, lest one inside should hear us!"

 

His lips brushed Lady Macbeth's ear as he hissed into it. The soft touch of them against her skin, his breathy, rustled voice in her ear, and his rough tug on her hair all sent a jolt through Lady Macbeth. That was when she grabbed him, pinned him against the door, and all but smothered him in intense kisses. Iago's hands ran up her back, holding her tightly against him, before one reached up to run through her hair while the other slid down to her behind. Fiery heat instantly shot through Lady Macbeth as she pressed herself more closely against Iago and swung one leg over his, all but climbing onto him.

 

"Bleeding whore," Iago muttered under his breath.

 

Lady Macbeth laughed teasingly.

 

Iago frowned. "Damn thee." He grabbed her hair and slammed her head against the door.

 

In turn, Lady Macbeth hurled him against the door with such force Iago was surprised it didn't break, then attacked, yes,  _ attacked  _ him with ravenous kisses and bites that would definitely leave bruises, almost punishingly. Iago roughly grabbed her, lifted her up a little, and proceeded to wreak yet more erotic violence on her pale, curved, swanlike neck. He had to admit to himself that he did enjoy how conveniently he fit into the crook of her neck. Both of them knew that others would be worried to see these sudden, unexplained injuries, but each of them would like to notice them from time to time and be reminded of each other. Lady Macbeth smiled broadly at the thought this, and from in the crook of her neck, a smile played at Iago's lips too.

 

She was so close to him at this moment. Iago never thought a person could have such an effect on him, but this woman was so ravishing, so captivating, and so very much like Iago, such a perfect match for him... He inhaled the aroma of jasmine from her and his hands traversed over the smooth ivory skin of her bare back, before moving up to the back of her head to rip her deep brown tresses loose from the elaborate hairstyle they were confined in. As the chestnut locks tumbled down, his hands glided through them, leaving no strand untouched. He couldn't get enough of her.

 

This woman was devilish, for sure, but she was his goddess.

 

Slowly, carefully, he moved his hands down her arms where her sleeves had fallen, sliding them further down but not completely off. He felt hot chills on Lady Macbeth's body as he did. Then he reached around to her back, undoing the dress and corset piece by piece. 

 

But before he could finish, with&nbspunforeseen strength, Lady Macbeth slashed his doublet open with sheer force and proceeded to kiss him with all the passion she had while running her hands up his chest and back. Iago slid his arms out of the sleeves to allow himself to peel the gown off Lady Macbeth's body, leaving her completely bare. His hands glided over her naked form freely, over her arms, across her breasts, down her waist, hips, behind...and one slipped between her thighs.

 

Lady Macbeth wrapped her arms around Iago and closed her eyes. She was so elated, so entranced in this extraordinary, overpowering pleasure she had never known until now. She wondered if she could even handle it. But she wanted it so much, she knew she would.

 

After several rapturous moments of this, Lady Macbeth pulled away from Iago slightly, took a few deep breaths, then glanced at the floor of the balcony and back at him, a lewd smirk playing at her lips. Iago smirked back knowingly before laying her on the floor, lowering himself onto her, undoing his trousers...and entering her. Lady Macbeth sighed deeply.

 

As she stared up at the starless night sky, like black velvet, though she was immersed in sin and wrongdoing, Lady Macbeth felt as if she was in her own personal Heaven.

 

\--

 

No. No. This was not happening.

 

Desdemona had escaped from the realm of Othello's watchful eyesight. And he couldn't find her.

 

He had seen Cassio at one point, and didn't see Desdemona with him, but he was sure she was somewhere amongst the horde of women that flocked to Cassio...if not dallying with him at this very moment. Othello's blood boiled at the thought.

 

She wasn't going to get away with it this time.

 

He made his way to a darkened corner of the room, where a stairway led somewhere that could easily conceal a pair of lovers. But just as he was about to ascend the stairs, a young servant exited that area.

 

"Boy! Dost thou know who be o'er there?" Othello called to him.

 

The servant took a few steps toward him down the stairs. His expression turned uneasy and awkward, as if he had intruded upon something. "Forsooth, I did hear a man an' woman up there, by the balcony..." He paused before whispering, "Do pardon me for this, sir, but...methinks they may be copulating."

 

"Ay, me..." Othello looked away for a moment, then back at the servant. "Whither be Desdemona, the lady in the gown o' red?" His voice dropped low with suspicion.

 

The servant's eyes widened. "Ah! I saw her o'er yonder, with the lady that he by the tide o' Iago entered with...his wife, perchance?"

 

"Hast thou seen Desdemona with a man at any time?" Othello inquired.

 

The servant frowned. "No, sir."

 

Othello's reaction to this could only be described as "..." He sighed. "I thank thee for thy pains."

 

The servant bowed and walked away.

 

Then Othello climbed the stairs towards the wooden door that led to the balcony. He pressed his ear to the door, listening for the delicate, lilting voice of his wife, and the deeper, bolder one of Cassio.

 

Listening closely, he heard faint sighs, that seemed to be coming from a man, and the slightly louder moans that were definitely from a woman. The male voice sounded strongly familiar, yet it didn't sound like Cassio's...and Othello had absolutely no idea who possessed the female voice. It definitely didn't sound like Desdemona's...and their voices were too faint for Othello to make out any words or other giveaways to who they were...

 

...until they spoke.

 

"To be so unhoused, so ensteeped in such dire villainy against thy love...e'er-constant in thy treachery against him, yet ne'er against me," the man said to the woman.

 

Othello's eyes widened. That voice...he knew it anywhere.

 

Then the woman spoke. "Though I be the wife o' the Thane, bound to him for all my life, thou hast my affections swayed o'er me."

 

Othello backed away from the door slightly. It was her.  _ Her.  _ The wife of Macbeth.

 

\--

 

When the two were done, Lady Macbeth's fingers trembled as she put her gown back on. "What shall I e'er tell my husband?"

 

"Say to him that thou hast fallen ill, and hast spent this hour heaving the gorge." Iago reached into his pocket and opened his palm to reveal a small glass bottle filled with a mysterious liquid. "Take in thee this elixir. 'Twill make thy visage lily-white an' sickly, thine eyes fill with water, an' thy breath carry the stench o' bile. It hath a taste most foul, but 'twill make for thee a pretense of sickness."

 

Lady Macbeth stared at him, unsure if she should take it.

 

"Dost thou trust me?" Iago smiled deviously as he held it out to her.

 

Hesitantly, she took it.

 

\--

 

"Whither hast thou been for so long?" Macbeth inquired with shock, his eyes wide.

 

Lady Macbeth fell limp and leaned against the wall so as to appear sick. "O, my husband, methinks I have fallen ill! I have passed the hour as so much gall cometh forth from me...perchance 'twas some thing I took in me..."

 

Macbeth caught her as she stumbled forward. He laid his finger under her chin and tilted her head up to face him. "Ay, me, my dear, thou dost look pale indeed! An' thine eyes are so glazed o'er... Shall I take thee home?"

 

"I pray thee, do so..." Lady Macbeth choked out, laying against her husband's shoulder.

 

"What hath happened?" Iago asked, appearing out of seemingly nowhere.

 

Lady Macbeth's act seemed to have worried some of the other guests, who watched her with concern, but...the Moorish general's expression could only be called a death glare...

 

"My wife hath fallen ill. I must away at once," Macbeth answered hurriedly.

 

"Ay, me...do become well anon, lady," Iago said to Lady Macbeth. He turned to her husband. "Good night to thee, sir, and better health attend thy wife!"

 

Before Lady Macbeth and her husband left, Lady Macbeth took one last glimpse over her shoulder.

 

The damn'd Moor was still staring at her.

 

\--

 

Truth to be told, Lady Macbeth actually felt perfectly well, save for the pungently vile taste of the elixir still in her mouth.

 

Her husband was insistent that she rest as much as she could, but just before Lady Macbeth retired to bed, she excused herself to a hot bath, saying it may help her feel better, where she scrubbed off the scent, feeling, and whatever else Iago had left behind on her so that her husband wouldn't be suspicious.

 

After she finished bathing and slipped her nightgown on, she padded back into the bedroom slowly, collapsed onto the bed, and closed her eyes, to appear exhausted from sickness.

  
Moments before she fell asleep, Macbeth kissed her forehead.


	9. A Couch of Deceit, A Web of Lies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Sorry this is so late, and sorry that it sucks.
> 
> Disclaimer: I own neither Othello nor Macbeth.

Silence had settled over the Arsenal in the wake of the feast: a thick cloak of deceptive calm that lay so heavily o’er the air and the tongue and the heart as to be nearly tangible, an oppressive and ill-contented weight upon the soul. Sentries, their tempers made short and harsh with weariness, marched to and fro outside the barred gates and along the crenellated walls; soldiers and officers and foreigners alike slept off the evening’s indulgences within their pallets or their canopied beds, oblivious to all but their own nebulous dreams. Here, a Scottish thane slumbered deep and sound, curled comfortably against the rigid form of his wife, who lay stiff on her back, turquoise gaze trained darkly Heavenward as her thoughts hungered to escape the confines of the elegant suite and her husband’s heavy hand upon her bosom for the company of a more... _ longed-for _ bedfellow. Elsewhere, a discontented lady-in-waiting rested still and silent within her world of dreams, while an equally discontented ensign paced, noiseless and tense like a feral cat, across the length too-small and too-warm chamber and back and back again, fists to his brow as he sought, to no avail, to beat some semblance of order and sense into his racing and disjointed thoughts. And there, as a woman of honey and china slept peacefully, a placid smile upon her rosebud lips, a general sat, fell and flinty, onyx eyes fixed dourly upon snow-white satin sheets, heart and mind rent asunder by lingering jealousies and insecurities and shocks that made the evening now past a veritable nightmare to recall.

  
  


X X X 

  
  


At that moment, Othello would fain have purged all semblance of thought of Desdemona from his mind, for the mere imagining of her was even now cause enough to drive him mad. O God, but he knew not wherefore this most unbookish jealousy had come so heavily o’er him thus! He might well wrack his memory all night long, but yet could not recall a single instance of his wife’s departing from her place; she had remained graciously cloistered beside the staid Emilia at every moment at which she had not been by his own side. Why, then, did he doubt her still? Why could he not love her, trust her, as she loved and trusted him in turn, pressing all confidence and regard gently into his sword-worn hands with nary a care, granting unto him the feather-light weight of her world with neither misprision nor misgiving, when he could so easily shatter it to pieces? 

 

...The fault of it all lay entirely within himself, of course. Though his own love for Desdemona burned more brightly within the caverns of his soul than any sacred fire of Heaven or raging inferno of Hell, he could not yet bring himself to believe that she returned that love in like kind, when there existed so many others-- of lesser years, fairer faces, hardier limbs than he-- upon whom she could have bestowed her glorious affections. Michael Cassio, perhaps, could have proved a viable contender, for the man possessed every charm and virtue that Othello himself sorely lacked, and he was neither blind to nor ignorant of his cherished friend’s more questionable habits; he knew precisely how fond young Michael was of the voluptuous and tender form of a woman--  _ any  _ woman. Was it so wrong, then, for him to imagine such a man having his eager way with Desdemona, when he could not bring himself to so much as glance upon her unclothed form for fear of sullying her blessed purity? Even good Iago, whom Othello had long known to be nearly ascetic in his ineffable distaste regarding all things remotely sexual, possessed more by way of an... _ appetite _ ...than did he!

 

_ Ah, but therein lies the crux of the matter _ , he thought ruefully, pushing himself up from the bed to stand by the open casement window, casting a brooding glare out onto the moonlit expanse of iron-studded brick that was the Arsenal. More than any lingering apprehensions regarding Desdemona’s fidelity, he found his thoughts to be increasingly beset by unwelcome recollections of what had transpired but four short hours before, when he had witnessed his ensign and the reverend thane’s wife in the middle of an act of unholy fornication so violently passionate as to make even his battle-seasoned stomach clench with nausea. Even so, he was not much inclined to lay blame wholly upon Iago’s shoulders, for he knew that the man was unhappy in his marriage, and had, perhaps, been plagued by the devil of the cup...and then, too, the woman had seemed entirely willing, even eager, to submit herself to him. Of the two, therefore, he could not help but think her to be more worthy of disgrace. For a woman-- any woman really, but one of her station especially-- to so grossly abuse her husband with so wanton a display of licentious heat for another…’twas pitiful: nay, monstrous! How, in God’s name, had she let herself fall so far from grace, that should would couch not only with another man, but with the Devil himself, in blissful depravity while her soul was cast unto the fires of Hell and that of her poor cuckolded husband screamed in agony of betrayal?

  
  


X X X 

  
  
The questions boiled, writhed beneath his skin, a dastardly itch he could not scratch, and Othello, standing still and silent as a mountain of bitter stone by his window, resolved to himself beneath the light of a pallid moon and a thousand distant stars that he would seek this viper out, as soon as was possible, and demand of her the truth behind this wretched adultery. He would not tolerate so vile and cruel a creature in his care, no matter what protestations his hospitality’s better nature might make. She would either speak, and repent, or else be cast out, as befitting her uptake of the mantle of devilish deceit under which she so gleefully worked. He would have it no other way.

**Author's Note:**

> Well, that’s that (in case you didn’t quite catch on, ‘he; is Iago, and ‘she’ is Lady Macbeth). This is actually the first time I’ve really written anything, or posted anything on this site, for...more than a few months (damn….), so...yeah, if you’d be so kind as to tell me what you thought (read: how much it sucked), I’d be eternally grateful. I might even get you an Iago hat as a consolation prize.
> 
> For future historical reference: I have taken the liberty of...well, really playing around with history (also, I haven’t cleared any of this with my partner, so it might be subject to change, as might the rating be later on). This story is set at the very beginning of the storylines of both plays: the Othello crew is still in Venice, and Macbeth is still Thane of Cawdor and battling for King Duncan. 
> 
> The wars Macbeth is seeking an alliance because of are the Anglo-Scottish wars, which raged between Scotland and England for roughly 3 centuries (14th, 15th, and 16th), following the Scottish War of Independence and finally ending in 1603 (three years before Macbeth was written) with the Union of Crowns, which created the union of the Three Kingdoms: England, Scotland, and Ireland, ruled by King James VI. 
> 
> Scotland’s Royal Navy really was in the shambles Macbeth described: it wasn’t maintained after the death of King James the IV, and his son, James V, never really went about building it back up.
> 
> Apparently Macbeth was a real king. You learn something new every day.
> 
> Um...yeah, I’m out, for now! I have absolutely no idea what will happen next, but I’m sure it’ll be good, so be sure to stick around for installment 2!


End file.
